


Fly towards the sunset

by StormXPadme



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Casual Sex, Come Swallowing, Coming Untouched, Creampie, Deepthroating, First Time Bottoming, M/M, Midsummer, Oral Sex, Rivendell | Imladris, Second Age, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24093886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormXPadme/pseuds/StormXPadme
Summary: In Imladris, at the dawn of the last war, Gil-galad needs to unwind. Elrond helps.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel/Ereinion Gil-galad
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	Fly towards the sunset

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moiety](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moiety/gifts), [Leyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyan/gifts).



"It's beautiful, what you built here." It's an honest compliment – much has changed here for the best since Gil-galad last visited Imladris – but the admiration and fondness for the Lord of this valley never makes it past the hollowness in his voice.

If he was to guess, that's probably why Elrond has come to see him in the chambers assigned to him earlier, though they both should be sleeping right now. Tomorrow will mark the beginning of the regrouping, training and detailed planning, their quest requires. There's no time for idleness.

But truth is, Gil-galad hasn't been sleeping more than an hour or two for years, and he doesn't think that's going to change in what is going to be his new home for a while. The constant swish of the waterfalls along with the noises of so many free-roaming animals should have been soothing, instead he's more on the edge than ever. Something about this valley's beauty touches a place in his heart he's actually long cauterized.

And his former charge knows him way too well to not see through the polite smile that they've said farewell with earlier. "You say that like it is a crime."

Elrond unclasps the entwined silver circlet from his raven hair before taking a seat. It could have been simple comfort relief, like the crown sitting on a silver pillow somewhere in the back of this living room; it's betrayed by Elrond's too straight position in the armchair, the alert tension in his long legs as he crosses them, instead of tucking them under his body like in past fireplace talks, when they had both been younger and with less burden.

It's the first chance, Gil-galad ever gets to really watch his former student as the leader of his own people. Centuries of responsibility have bestowed a kind of confidence on that once scrawny elf with too much grief in deeply sunken eyes that borders on sexy.

But Elrond's not come to relive their physical bonding sessions, so unusual for their kin as it is anyway. They've taken off their crowns and their titles, and they're alone now. That's what this patient smile is supposed to tell Gil-galad. It's time to stop pretending, the fleeting touch of fingertips on the back of his hand says when Elrond takes the offered glass of wine from him.

"You've been uncomfortable since you arrived. Not what you expected?"

"So much _more_." Gil-galad allows himself a quick look to the window though he's pulled the curtains closed first thing upon entering.

Still, he can clearly see the white glow of a small citadel before his eyes, slender figures lost in cheerful dances; his fine senses can still pick up on the perfectly synchronized tune of a dozen harps if he focuses. It's Midsummer and the mood is always pleasant and frisky on this day of the year.

Elrond should be out there right now, celebrating what might be the last feast of this kind, laughing, bonding, maybe finding one of the few of their kind who know just like them, how to keep physical pleasures apart from romantic bonding, engage in a night of fun as Midsummer so often induces. Everything but keeping a grumpy monarch from falling even deeper into this damn wine barrel.

But now he's here, and he's not leaving before he knows, he never does; so Gil-galad might as well speak up. "I'm just afraid it was a futile effort, mellon. Like the realm my own people left behind."

Elrond sets down the almost untouched drink. He's never been as much into mundane pleasures, Gil-galad remembers. His former pupil has always had a more exquisite taste. In several regards.

"Not all is lost. We might yet come out of this on top."

" _You_ might, actually." An askew grin curls on Gil-galad's lips. He doesn't want to disillusion the other elf on their first day of this hopeless endeavor already. "Your unshakable optimism alone keeps you alive."

And that's something, he could never really get behind, maybe the thing that drove them to different sides of the country in the end, apart from their duties. He's never wrapped his head around this ability to look forward when behind you, there laid so much that you lost.

Elrond raises one shoulder, drops it again, a sluggish movement, as if all that grief and anger that Gil-galad's just thought about so unkindly is weighing it down. He feels bad for assuming immediately.

"I've learned long ago that it is me alone who has to be the forger of my own fate. And if it _does_ happen, if we fail and we have to retreat, or if I will not live to see our victory, then I have left behind enough for them to thrive on and start over."

"I wish I could see it like that." Gil-galad puts his own glass down on the sofa table, not only because he's suddenly sick of the stale taste of shallow numbness, but because some habits die hard. He doesn't need to see someone who has relied on his strength for so long after everyone that he has loved left him, to see his hands shake.

"I don’t expect to come back when we march to Sauron's lands, Elrond. But that is not what I fear. Being High King of the Noldor never brought anyone luck, and I never quite got around to make sure, that ill fate passes on to someone else once I'm leaving. I fear they'll be lost without me. They depend on me so much ..."

"It's all about what you leave behind. In part, that's why I'm still here." Elrond has none of his inhibitions, and little too hide. Gil-galad has seen him cry often enough to keep the different kinds of glistening in his grey eyes apart. This one is the distant, resigned but never enraged sadness he holds in his heart for the ones who departed from him to escape their own pain, after first kidnapping and then saving him, and making sure he's ready for his own life.

"The people I have loved might have left me sooner than I wished, but I learned a lot from my time with them. And from the decisions they made in the end, no matter how much I hated them."

" _How_? What's with the sugarcoating, Elrond? What _good_ is there in defeat?" He flares up and knows he shouldn't, knows he's taking out his helplessness on the person who deserves it the least.

He's just so _tired_ of being unable to see the horizon anymore.

Elrond doesn't flinch, and when he turns his head back from the flames, his eyes are dry once more. "Proving that you did your best. It is the curse of the Valar, Gil. Sometimes, you can do your best and still fail."

When Gil-galad reaches for the damn glass again, for a lack of anything better to do with his hands, he gets up and sits down on the sofa next to him to put the wine away. A firm, almost brutal grasp on his shoulder keeps him from trying again, and this time, he doesn't let go.

"Sometimes, defeat means standing by what you are and what you do, even when you fail, as long as you know, there is nothing you could have done better. It means showing you are not your failures but your victories, and that you stand up for what you believe in. It's being humble about things that are bigger than you, so others do the same and may prevail over them. What matters is that you always look your fears in the eye and face them, even if you're doomed to fail."

The memory of better days – and nights – in their intimate friendship flicker up in both of their minds as Elrond reaches up to cup his face in one offending steady hand, as first tears fill Gil-galad's eyes. "Defeat is about pride, Ereinion. About never bowing down, even in devotion."

"Devotion has never been my strong suit, as you know." He absently nuzzles his cheek against that calloused hand and sees Elrond shiver in a way he knows but has nearly forgotten, when his too fast breath hits his palm. In the last centuries, they had bigger worries than letting off a bit of steam between the sheets, but none of them has forgotten.

Maybe it's time to revive one or the other beloved tradition before the world is ending.

An exceptionally wicked smile spreads on Elrond's always slightly pouty lips when he sees the heat rise in Gil-galad's cheeks, the way he shifts his weight on the sofa. Instead of letting go off him, his former pupil wraps the messy remainder of what was once a couple of neat braids around his hand, holding him just a little too tightly as that tempting mouth comes closer to his, but never close enough to touch. "Even for a King, it is never too learn to late."

Gil-galad impatiently struggles against the hold, ignores the tinge of pain at the back of his head as he leans forward to go for the kiss he's longing for. This is not a night for slow and sweet, they can do that another time.

He doesn't waste time before opening his lips, his tongue darting forward to seek entrance to that skilled mouth. A surprised noise is in the back of his throat when he's being welcomed instead, a pushy invader diving deeply into his own mouth, licking every spot it can reach, wrestling his tongue down every time he tries to do the same.

Well, that is new.

He's not quite done yet, deciding in his slightly booze-addled brain what he thinks about this demanding behavior when he feels his wrists getting caught in a surprisingly iron grip, stopped before he can do more than open the first buttons of Elrond's tunic.

"I don't think so, mellon." Elrond withdraws a few inches, strengthening the hold of his slightly larger hand on Gil-galad's unprepared forearms when he tries to break loose. Slowly but unmistakably, he's pushing them away from him, downwards. Towards the floor. "You're going to have to earn touching rights first. Why don't you try by putting that mouth of yours to good use?"

"Stop being ridiculous. This is completely inappropriate." It's a hint of anger now flushing his cheeks, but not only. Most of it is directed at his own treacherous body anyway, as Gil-galad finds, that the prospect of serving his old pupil for a while, has his already interested cock on full alert.

If they both wouldn't be who they are, maybe he'd give it a thought, but that’s out of the question; it already was when they've engaged in those few passionate nights so long ago. And Elrond sure never _complained_ about being on the receiving end, never voiced the desire to shake up those traditional roles …

But this is not the old Kingdom anymore, and maybe Gil-galad has to get used to the thought that his former charge really has changed a lot.

"It's Midsummer, my friend. Tradition never means much in that night." Elrond grins only wider, his eyes fixed on the considerable bulge at the front of Gil-galad's breeches. "You can either get on your knees and to work, then I might be inclined to do something about _that_ later. Or you can go to bed and I'll see if any of my people is in a more responsive mood."

It's a dirty trick but it works because Gil-galad has never been anything if not possessive about what's his. Besides, he's always had deep fondness of Elrond's tall body, in many a shape revealing the mortal side of his ancestry. Worshipping it a little is not the worst way to start a night. Of course it's still out of the question that he's bending over for anyone, no matter how deep that friendship runs, but they can discuss that later.

For the moment, he's content with slipping down before the sofa, to start open the fastenings of his lover's breeches, a little arduously thanks to his still restricted movements, and not without pointedly rolling his eyes at Elrond.

He yelps a little, more in surprise than anything, when his lover leans forward to give his unprepared behind a slap, none too gentle and definitely not quiet. Gil-galad can just hope that everyone in the courts and houses nearby is too busy celebrating or fucking to have heard that. "What was that for?"

"Being sassy to your superior, for once. Get on with it. Or would you rather have me leave? Because I'm not about to waste my Midsummer night with someone who doesn't know what they want."

The affectionate smile has been replaced by stern lines buried around that insolent mouth. The way, Elrond slowly raises one eyebrow in challenge, Gil-galad recognizes very well from himself, from certain incidents between them when the roles had been quite reversed. Maybe he's taught the guy a little _too_ well.

They can talk about that later, Gil-galad decides, because he finally has those damn silken pants open, and the pretty cock underneath immediately springs to life. He's drowning in a soft-salty note he's nearly forgotten, and his mouth is watering. The way he licks his lips doesn't leave his lover cold, his arms are finally released and he can lean forward to lick a thick stripe over that thick, veiny cock. The chocked moan of arousal he earns is enough to make all annoyance forgotten and spur him on to a serious effort now of pleasuring his lover, give back a bit of that distraction the heavy conversation has left. That's all they can expect of each other in times like these, and it has to be enough.

Soon enough, he's got his mouth too full of cock to complain anyway. Likewise, his lover trembles too much under him as Gil-galad reaches deeper into his pants to gently roll and massage his large, heavy sacs in his palm, for further impertinence. Yes, this is a lot better already. He wills himself to relax his throat and allows his lover's cock to slip all the way inside his mouth, hollowing his cheeks, his tongue darting forward once his face is firmly pressed into the annoying remaining tunic, to tease the sensitive skin around those heavy balls further as he swallows and gags.

Only when he can't ignore the protest of his own body anymore, he withdraws, looking up for a moment as he gasps for air to revel in the grimace of pure arousal on his lover's pointy features.

A shiver down his back prickles in his neglected groin when he find's Elrond's eyes wide open instead of looking away in shame about his very vocal reactions, a stare of both approval and challenge that is asking for more.

The expression immediately turns back to warning though, when Gil-galad sneaks his right hand further between his lover's legs, teasing the hidden entrance as he's busy sucking and softly nibbling on his balls, hoping to distract his lover enough to sneak a fingertip inside of him, to remind him how much he's always enjoyed a good pounding by his King and forget that other ridiculous idea …

Gil-galad winces as his hair is taken into that relentless grip again, his head being stilled and pushed away before Elrond reaches for his wrists once more. Again, he's too slow and too caught up to pull back in time, and he still doesn't like it any better. "Let go off me, right now, or …"

"Or?" Elrond lets out a deep, throaty chuckle that goes straight between Gil-galad's legs and leaves his breeches uncomfortably tight. Maybe he's underestimated his old friend a lot more than thought.

"These are _your_ chambers now. You're welcome to send me anyway anytime. Until then though …" The grip tightens once more, twisting relentlessly, pulling, until Gil-galad is forced to stand up and turn aside, with an unwilling growl on his lips that turns into a surprised yelp as Elrond suddenly kicks his legs out from under him and he ends up sprawled over his lover's knees.

He can't recover quickly enough from the shock, suddenly there's soft but unforgiving fabric wrapping around one of his wrists. Again that hard yank forcing him to take it behind his back, with the other hand soon following until his lower arms are bound up to his elbows, immobile, as he writhes and kicks, to no avail, and finally turns his head up to his lover in disbelief.

Elrond just grins at him, toothily, and reaches inside a pocket of his breeches again, to the same spot where he's probably got that damn cloth from, coming up with a small knife. "Until then, it would seem, I have to teach you some manners."

"Is this how you control your own people too?" Gil-galad snaps at him, angry because he hasn't seen this coming, and wholly unfairly. It does indeed cross his mind to ask the bastard to leave this very second.

Unfortunately he's still steel hard, even as Elrond unceremoniously cuts open his breeches, baring his naked behind to the fire-warmed air. Desires of submission he's never had a chance to chase thanks to his birthright position alone, carefully hidden for millennia, are coming back to haunt him as a solid blow hits his left cheek, and the sound from his lips is a desperate moan more than a scream.

And the damn window is still open.

Fuck everything. Especially this bastard who calls himself his herald.

It slowly dawns on him though, that indeed might not happen tonight. If he doesn't start getting comfortable with the idea, he'll just have to take care of his arousal alone indeed.

"Not necessary. My people usually know not to question my orders," Elrond answers impassively. The second slap is a lot harder, and it's probably only to his lover being considerate enough to provide him with a pillow to bite down on that there's not already some of his soldiers coming to their King's alleged rescue.

"You want me to go, just tell me. You want me to _stop_ , you'll have to ask a little more politely. And I feel I should inform you that I have a lot of patience."

The bastard really does, Gil-galad remembers that very well too. Even now he can feel Elrond's remaining arousal press into his side and hips whenever he tries to break away from the hold on his arms, but his lover is in no hurry at all.

A series of short, tight smacks follows, stinging from his tailbone all the way down to the back of his thighs, and then working its way back up on the other side. Only then Elrond takes pity on his pained groans again and pauses. "Anything you want to tell me?"

"Fuck you." The beginning heaviness in Gil-galad's head from too much energy and unfulfilled arousal is not intense enough yet to even consider giving in.

Somehow, he can't quite remember though what it actually is what they're arguing about, because the next slap hits him firmly between his already sensitive cheeks, dangerously close to his exposed genitals, and he winces.

"Not tonight, old friend. Besides, I think I told you how I feel about impertinence."

He has but apparently, Elrond sees no reason to not drive the lesson home very thoroughly. He's really not messing around now anymore; every of his smacks hit with enough force to drive Gil-galad's helpless, half-naked body a few inches forward except for the grip that holds him in place.

His skin is soon red and over-sensitive, covered in light welts, and his head is emptied of any coherent words or feelings of protest. Nothing left but the raging arousal between his legs, the heat in his veins and the trembling anticipation of yet another slap that has him scream out and weakly struggle.

Only when the next sound from his lips threatens to turn into a sob, something in him tenses, and he quickly blinks his sight free. He can live with being subdued because of his own stupidity. He even can enjoy being a plaything for his lover for a while, since Elrond is noticeably enjoying this. But what he will not do is give in to weakness, ever. Weakness has always been deadly for men of his line.

" _Stop_ … please," he adds, breathlessly, reluctantly but loud enough when Elrond pauses, his hand still high in the air, waiting.

His lover has always known the point when he has to step back and give him a moment. It's one of the reasons Gil-galad trusts him with his life. A hand comes to rest on his neck, caressing and massaging the tension out of there as Gil-galad's body goes still, relaxing into his lover and the cushions as he gasps for air. Another touch ghosts over the aggressively red skin of his behind, white, soothing energy flowing from the gifted hands of his lover and the quiet song from his lips, until the worst of irritation of welts have vanished.

A soft kiss to one of his still sensitive butt cheeks follows, and a not all that gentle bite that tears him from a beginning soft slumber right back into this strange new situation.

"You've done well, Ereinion. I'm proud of you. Let me take care of you now." Slender fingers rub between his cheeks, circling the spot there that he seldom regards with much attention himself even, teasing the puckered skin ever so slightly. When he lets out a still very skeptical growl but doesn't flinch away or give another snidely remark, a last, this time very soft smack hits the top of his ass. Within seconds, his wrists are untied.

"Get moving, you deadweight. I need oil. You can either be a good boy and wait for me on your knees when I get back, or you can spend the rest of the night alone. And be assured that this is the last time I'm asking. There's people in this valley who don't need to be begged first to be fucked by me."

He's bluffing, mostly, Gil-galad knows that because they've never been much into switching partners quickly and easily; for that, they're still way too conservative after all, even on Midsummer.

But the _thought_ that he could be left alone with his unfulfilled desire while his lover gets his pleasure elsewhere is enough to have him obey at least the first part of the order. While Elrond is busy rummaging through some supplies in the bathroom, he sits on the sofa with his legs drawn close to his body, because his backside still hurts, and tries to clear his head, to find out what by the stars he _wants_ , what he _needs_ , how far he is willing to go for a little bit of fun.

The answer should be pretty clear. This is ridiculous. Nothing but a stupid game, certainly not worth bending himself out of shape. They're at war, they have so much bigger things to worry about …

Gil-galad closes his eyes and buries his head against his knees when his sight threatens to blur again. Yes. They are at war. That's why he's sitting here now in a guest house of his old friend, in a strange town with all of his troops waiting to march to their death, and the only comfort being the steadying touch of someone who knows him maybe best on this damn world, in- and outside.

Someone who's gifted _him_ with _his_ body more than once, in nights when their wrath and their loneliness has almost taken over and all they had was holding on to each other. And now he's seriously thinking about _not_ giving back the same, refusing even that small approach in a time when he's asking of his friend to give him all he has to offer, from his home to his people and probably his life?

This isn't about pleasure, it has never been. It's about trust.

He moves before he knows he's about to, and by the time, he hears his lover come back, he's naked. The cooling, smooth leather of the sofa is a pleasant sensation against his too hot, sweat-sticky skin as his upper body leans heavily against the high back rest, his legs bent and parted in invitation, his hands crossed on his back again, without any kind of restraint this time.

His too fast, too uneven breath slows down immediately when Elrond gently caresses up and down his back, standing behind his bent over shape close enough to press his hips against Gil-galad's bared behind, making him feel how much the sight alone turns him on. The last barrier of his lover's clothes between his straining length and the vulnerable bareness of Gil-galad's unprepared hole keeps him from startling away; the admiring, breathless murmur in Elrond's voice grounds the anxious flutter of uncertainty in his soul.

"You don't know, how beautiful you are, mellon."

Something about the rough honesty in these words chokes every snarky remark of Gil-galad's lips. He buries his face into the backrest instead, and this time, Elrond allows him the escape, allows him to hide while he keeps on stroking, groping, massaging his tense shoulders, his back, his legs, ever until his muscles are no longer too tightly wired bowstrings.

Only then, there's the pleasantly warm sensation of oiled fingers reaching his most sensitive places, and it's so much better, so different from the clumsy, hasty satisfaction of a rigid toy after too little preparation in lonely nights in his palace chambers, when nothing but the shallowest bit of adrenaline keeps the fears and the nightmares away. The well-trained fingers of an experienced healer play his body like an instrument, never breaching him before his muscles don't give in, finding the hidden spot of pleasure inside of him with eerie accuracy, stroking it to the tune of Gil-galad's blissful moans instead of slamming into him to force himself to orgasm.

His untouched arousal leaves thick traces of white on the fabric he's writhing against, and the sounds from his lips are now an incoherent babble that he's stopped caring about, of praise and encouragement, there might even be one or two pleas slipping in between.

He hasn't even realized how enthusiastically he's been riding those three fingers so deeply inside of him until they're suddenly gone, and he feels empty and cold for a second. " _Please_ …"

"I'm here. I've got you." The short rustling of clothes has Gil-galad startle once more, but his lover doesn't come behind him immediately. Instead, he grabs his wrists far gentler than earlier, releases them from their voluntary stillness. As his lover climbs behind him on the sofa, he brings Gil-galad's arms up, coaxes him to reach around him until he finds the much-needed purchase of Elrond's soft hair to hold on to, and he can breathe more easily again.

As he releases his breath, his lover enters him, and Gil-galad forgets what he's been afraid of.

There's not much thought left in him after that, only the warmth of sensation covering him, all around him, inside him, beloved hands caressing everywhere they can reach, from his pebbled nipples to his trembling legs, the desperate hardness between his legs, until he's pushing back for more. The soft initial burn is long gone, replaced by the so much better one in his veins and on his skin, and when his lover bottoms out in him for the first time, he comes all over himself.

Elrond never stops moving, thrusts him back to hardness within a ridiculous short time, and there's not much he remembers in detail after that.

It's only when the sun starts rising outside that he comes to himself to again. He's lying in a strong pair of arms, cradled on his side on the mess that was once a clean sofa, hurting in the best of places and calm to the core in a way, he hasn't experienced it in three-hundred years.

There's nothing he can think of saying, so he just turns his head and kisses Elrond, tasting salt, tasting himself from when his lover brought him to his second completion after filling him up inside. It's not unpleasant, and he hums and shivers, though they're both much too fucked out to get up to anything again before the imminent morning meeting.

"Thank you. I didn't know how much I needed that."

"Always happy to serve, Your Majesty," Elrond returns with a definitely shit-eating grin, and Gil-galad is awake enough again for a painful dig in his lover's ribs.

When that is done, he kisses him again, softly, Elrond's arms tightening around Gil-galad's lazy form once more, before he untangles himself from him to head for the bathroom. They need to hurry if they don't want to be late, provoking even more rumors than there'll be already.

Gil-galad can't bring himself to mind. There'll never be more than this between them. Neither of them has ever harbored that kind of feeling for the other, and that is completely alright. What they have is perfect for both of them, and it's enough, and it's no one's business but theirs.

With a little bit of luck, it will even be enough to make it through another Age alive.


End file.
